Brethren
by A Road Unturning
Summary: "You know what you need, Toady? An older brother."


_Disclaimer: Don't own LB._

_Warning – Subtle slashiness. Odd mix of brotherly and alternative intention. Style is connected drabbles._

**Brethren.**

The wannabe rocker has no place here.

He bounces in with terrible mismatched white trousers and a black netted shirt. He has so much shit stitched onto his jacket he basically jangles, as if it's not hard enough to ignore him already.

Edgar hasn't seen anyone with such...buoyancy before. He's like a balloon that someone has just let loose, only the air is limitless, and the zigzag of energy never stops.

"Hey, funky headband kid!"

He's got a scratchy voice as well. High, boyish, yet still Edgar can hear the deep rumbles of masculinity catching its edges.

He's grinning now, and waving one of the old retro classics in the air.

"How much for this, Rambo?"

Edgar's eyes narrow at the nickname, but his tone remains icily polite.

"One dollar fifty."

The older boy shoves his hands in his pockets, and pulls out the empty insides. He flashes an affable grin.

"Hey, can I borrow it?"

White tooth flashes in the darkness of his mouth, and something quivers inside Edgar.

His reply is stony.

"This isn't a library."

The boy pouts. His smile disappears, and he slips the book back onto the rack with a grumble.

"Heyyyy, you're no fun, Rambo."

Edgar shrugs, typically stoic, and struts over to the counter. His parents are upstairs, and he damn wishes Alan was nearby for some strange reason. There's nothing too off-putting about the young man; he wears mismatched earrings and has his hair styled like a poodle, but he looks nonthreatening, well, except to anyone with fashion sense. He's tall, yet skinny, but not in the wiry sense ether.

Actually, Edgar isn't sure. He absently takes a closer look; below the netted shirt lurks a compact chest, a strong midriff, and broader shoulders then he first expected.

Edgar's brow furrows. Maybe he is a physical threat, though his manner has only implied otherwise.

The boy notices Edgar's attention; and a grin sneaks across his face.

Edgar blinks, and turns his head, tapping his fingers intently on the counter.

When he looks again, Twisted Sister has jogged over to the pinball machine.

"Hey, can I play on this?"

"Sure," Edgar deadpans, grateful that the mad poodle is occupied. "If you've got change."

The man sniggers, and this time, he sounds like a _man_. Edgar's hand spasms and he inwardly tells himself to chill.

"Caught again, Rambo."

The older boy leans back, pulls off a coin stitched onto his jacket, and twiddles it playfully between two fingers. He tosses his head, trails fingers through his hair, and winks in Edgar's direction.

.

.

.

.

When next Twisted Sister comes a' calling, Alan is nowhere to be found. Edgar dumps the box full of comics on the floor beside the main door, and curses his brother's horrendous timing. He'd mentioned it to Alan, who'd only scoffed at Edgar's inept ability to handle customers.

Twisted Sister does little at first. There are two pretty, scantily clad surfer girls he flirts with; and even Edgar has to admit, he is a natural charmer, all grins and witty jokes and ace one-liners. It's the type of ease Edgar will, and shall always, lack when it comes to the opposite sex. Truth be told, he would be surprised if he ever got a date.

Funny really, because he seldom ever thought about it.

He still hears their giggles, and then the clacking of their heels as they totter away. Edgar hopes he's left with them.

As he goes to lean on the counter, he feels fingers petting the back of his head.

He jolts, dropping the store timetable; and poodle boy takes a step back, grinning all the while.

"Eh, eh, Rambo. Take it easy. Just ol' Paul."

Paul. God, now they are on first name terms.

Edgar goes to snap something back, but freezes as Twisted Sister fingers the ends of his hair.

"You know Rambo, you've got pretty funky hair. You should do some cool things with it."

"Its fine the way it is," Edgar mumbles, ducking under Paul's arm. "I've got no time for fussy shit like _styling."_

He gags at the very notion, to be truthful. Men don't style their hair. Or he doesn't. And he certainly doesn't need hair tips from a guy who looks like he should be at a dog show.

"Don't you have someone else to annoy?"

Paul smirks.

"Ah, come on Rambo, don't be like that."

Edgar purses his lips with a firmness he doesn't feel.

"I can be like anything I want. Now, if you're not buying..." He points to the door, all hard salesperson. "You can get the hell out of my store."

Paul emits rusty chuckles, and slips around Edgar, toying with a rouge strand of hair. Edgar takes two steps back, suddenly feeling cold. There's an expansive chill on Paul's flesh that soaks through his clothes.

"Not your store, Rambo," Paul utters softly, and there is a sudden, spiteful glimmer in the airy blue of his eyes. "But your parent's store, eh?"

It's a throwaway comment, one that would have little impact on anyone else, but Edgar feels his eyes widen against his will.

When he looks again, Twisted Sister is lost in the thriving crowds of the Boardwalk.

.

.

.

Edgar is out, and for once, forgets to watch his back.

He loses his focus for a second, and then it's too late.

They're around him, fists curling into his t-shirt. Something solid pounds into his gut; he doubles over, gasping in pain. The dank bricks of an alleyway soak through the back of his jacket. He feels cold steel lain threateningly over his jugular.

Edgar may occasionally be arrogant, but even he knows that there is no impulsive fighting move to dislodge a knife or duck a speeding bullet.

They go through his pockets, and of course, find only two dollars and a penknife.

They hiss, a mixture of curses and sniggers, and Edgar sees one of them draw back his fist. His feet, hands, and upper body are bound; he squeezes his eyes tight and waits for the impact.

The man is jerked up violently. The remaining thugs still; then shriek and howl in terror. Edgar is left blinking in shock as air bursts past his ears; the Surf Nazis scatter. He hears a sickening crunch above, and then a spangled edge of blonde hair, sticky from hair spray, brushes his cheek.

"You know Rambo, you need to keep yourself outta trouble."

Paul looks extremely self congratulating, even with blood soaking his jacket and dripping off his hair. He frowns as Edgar's mouth goes slack. Then he remembers.

"Ah, shit..."

He awkwardly waves his hand over Edgar's face; the teenager goes to snap in protest, but clouds glaze his eyes and his knees give out. Paul dutifully hauls the teen up from under his armpits, and smirks at his own stupidity.

He's not good at the mind fucking thing, as it's more David's forte. And god knows why he went to help the hapless kid in the first place. He'd been tracking the snub nosed Rambo wannabe out of a passing interest and as part of an undecided menu.

The kid is covered in blood. The Surf Nazi's blood that is, who now looks like lasagne with teeth.

Nah, he can't have that. Waking up in blood is certain to get the kid asking questions.

.

.

.

A motorbike rumbles between his legs.

Edgar groans. His nose is pressed against the shifting hardness of someone's back. He recognises the dull, acrid lights of the comic shop. He batters sleep from his eyes, suddenly feeling hung-over and weirdly groggy. There is a nasty ache in his gut, and he feels as if he's run a marathon.

He's also soaking wet.

What?

He discreetly sniffs his jacket; it stinks of seaweed. What the hell, he hasn't been near the sea. Hey, he dislikes the ideas of bathing suits anyway, but what the...

Paul, damp from some unknown moisture, bounces into his eye view.

"Heeeeey, mini Rambo! You with us?"

He ruffles the kid's hair, who at this point, is too stunned to swat him away.

"What...?"

He remembers being bundled into an alleyway by thugs. That explains the mini cut on his collarbone, and the clenching in his stomach. He furrows his brow in thought. Yet the rest is blurry. He recalls the thug being yanked away, but then, nothingness.

Paul smirks as he sees the teenager knot his eyebrows together in quizzical musing. Yes, he likes this kid; he likes him very much.

"Hey, you hit your head pretty bad, little buddy!"

"I...did?"

"Yeah."

Edgar still looks suspicious. He feels the back of his head, as if to check, glare never once relenting from Paul's widening grin.

He blinks.

"I'm..."

Paul leans forward, interested.

"Yeah?"

The kid is shivering, and suddenly, Paul feels guilty.

"I'm wet."

Paul feels like laughing.

"Well, little buddy, skinny dipping at midnight..."

A passing couple peer at them, bemused.

Edgar's eyes widen.

"I didn't..."

"Only joking, miniature Rambo."

Paul stills; cocks his head to the side, and smirks. He leans into Edgar, who takes a step back, obviously disenchanted with the situation. Paul's pupils flicker towards the comatose parents lounging behind the counter. Would they miss him?

There is a predatory gleam in his eye.

"You know what you need, kid," he utters softly, chucking Edgar's chin, who shrinks below his touch, eyes narrowing. "You need an older brother."

Edgar looks lost; his chin tightens.

"I have an older brother."

"Oh, do you?" Paul grins. He can't argue with that. "Kay. Well, he better take good care of you then, Eddie."

_Eddie, what the fuck..._

In a whir of his motorcycle, Paul is lost, once again, amongst the crowds.

.

.

.

"You killed Marko!"

Alan yells beside him, his scream lasting longer than Edgar's. The approaching blood sucker is blazing eyes, teeth, all mad hair and chaffing leather. Edgar feels his gut twist, from fear and unwilling recognition. He knew there was something off about the older teen, but fuck, this...

Edgar has never seen Paul angry before, but here, he is furious. He spits his vengeance in his high, mocking laughter, boyish and semi playful as always, but rumbling with a demonic core that freezes his insides.

Edgar is terrified. He's never been this scared before, and his fear is only enhanced by the strange conviction in Paul's eyes. He doesn't even glance at Alan; just stares into Edgar, flashing fangs and horrid grin.

_Oh, I'm gonna hurt you, Rambo._

Garlic doesn't work, but holy water most certainly does.

Paul screams, scraping at his face mercilessly. He pulls back his hands, revealing burnt away skin and hate filled eyes.

Edgar just wishes he would stop _looking _at him.

Paul grins again; forever the joker, and advances.

.

.

.

A year has passed since Sam, blood, poodle haired vampires and wrecked drains. Since comic books became reality and the Emersons a second family.

Edgar is out on the boardwalk with Sam and Alan. It's warm, the air rich with youthful magic, and a girl winks at him. She's tall, pretty, all legs and red lips, and Alan has just tagged after Sam who wants to ride the coaster for the hundredth time. Edgar smirks at Alan's sardonic, long suffering glance, but he doesn't note his brother's eyes darkening as the pretty thing wraps her perfumed arms around his chest.

Alan is suddenly gone, and Edgar is pushed against the railing. He balks from the feeling of lipstick smearing against his chin, at the bell chimes of high giggles and a searching hand he knocks away. His cheeks are screaming scarlet, but his voice is steady.

"Easy, lady! Haven't you heard of a restraining order?"

"Ohhhh, don't be like that, _Rambo," _she moans, mouth a perfect "o" and Edgar's stomach plummets as her voice drops several octaves.

"_Fuck."_

A hard chest is pushing against his; the smell of gasoline assaults his senses. Paul hovers into view, flicking a red tongue over the pointed tips of his canines.

"Missed me?"

"You..." Edgar gulps like a goldfish. "You...bath...garlic..."

"I got better."

Edgar's gaze flickers around. No one is looking at them, and Alan is away on the coaster. What the hell...

Paul is bright eyed and bushy tailed, but his smile shows a little too much teeth.

"I'm the only one left, Eddie. And I've got a_ looooonnnnngggg _memory."

.

.

.

Edgar is packing. Upstairs, he stores away boxes. He packs away memories and lost brotherhood and parts of himself that kill him too much to keep. He discards any evidence of his former life; of close, intensive friends and hot summer nights where they were all driven mad by whirring carousal chimes, of his brother's hand on his shoulder, of his brother's voice filling the spaces next to him, of the stink of newsprint and shaven wood. Of Alan, and Edgar is already a bundle of numbed nerves, of shredded hopes, and now he knows he won't ever have a fragment of a normal life.

Any chance of that stilled, shattered, flaking away from his fingertips when Alan fed. When Alan drank, and liked it.

He's downstairs. Yesterday, his mother asked him a question about Alan. He ignored her, like she had ignored him, ignored Alan, ignored them both, their entire lives. Papa Frog is no longer around. His doping finally lead to him falling into a catatonia that neither him nor his mother could wake him from.

Its night and Edgar plans to leave tomorrow. To some moody little town, with sea and no sun. He feels it matches his current temperament perfectly. And of course, it has vampires.

He has to keep in a job, surely.

Paul is leaning over the decrepit pinball machine. He chortles as Edgar approaches, and shakes his head, grin downcast, at how Edgar attempts to avoid him.

His grin fades as he sees the suitcases.

"You're leaving?" He chuckles, yet his body is seized by a wired tension that borders on desperation. "Why are you going, Rambo? You can't leave here."

Edgar leans over the counter, exhausted. He impatiently runs his fingers through his hair. He still wears headbands, but now they tend to be black, blue, even green, but never red.

"I am." He deadpans. His eyes narrow. "And I will."

"Ohhhh, no, _Toady,"_ singsongs Paul. He sidles away from the pinball machine, around the racks of coloured paper, eyes flashing amber, and Edgar suddenly feels discomforted.

"You're not leaving ol' Paul," He smirks, fisting his still ridiculously too long hair. His expression is amused, confused, and a little mad. "You're not leaving me alone here, bud."

.

.

.

A few months after Edgar settles in Luna Bay, Paul appears.

Its night; cold, as its October and the summer has pattered out forever. Edgar buries himself beneath blankets, his ears pricking as a swelling burst of air rushes through his trailer. The door bangs open, curtains flap, and low, heckling whispers fill the tiny space.

Edgar bolts upright, fingers curling around a nearby stake, fear puncturing his insides. It can't be, not...

It's not Alan, but Paul, who watches him silently, his face for once composed. He squats at the end of the bed, hands braced on his knees. He looks crazily serious, and Edgar groans, lowering his stake.

.

.

.

Paul brings Santa Carla with him. Wherever he goes, especially when he around Edgar, all the Frog can smell is rotten cotton candy and the salty throttle of the Pacific. Paul still bounces, still stitches jangling metals onto his jacket, still effortlessly flirts and fucks his way through half the population. He occasionally changes his attire, but still looks like twisted sister.

Edgar tries time and time again to get him to leave. But Paul is as persistent as his memoires.

He never does.

.

.

.

"Who's Alan, little buddy?"

Paul knows who Alan is. Of course he does.

Edgar ignores his query. He's stumbled in after being confronted by three bloodsuckers near the main high street. He dusted them, sure, but they've left him with scratches down his back, across his face, and his clothes are covered in their remains and his blood.

He kicks off his boots, pulls off his headband soaked in sweat. He desperately wants to remove his jacket; the rough material is playing havoc with his wounds, yet he doesn't want to excite Paul with the sight of his blood.

"I'm a little old," he grunts. "To be called "little buddy."

Paul bounces down on the bed beside Edgar. The springs creak, and Edgar winces at the sound.

"Heeey...Toady," Paul heckles, shifting towards him. He licks his lips. "You're bleeding."

"Nicely observed," Edgar shoots back, groaning as he feels Paul's fingers slip around his cheeks. He's a little tired to fight off any surprise attacks. Paul has never attacked him though. Never touched him, not even the tips of his hair, and Edgar assumes the poodle haired vamp is biding his time.

It's foolish for one to let their guard down around a predator. Especially one as unpredictable as Paul.

He jolts as a cool tongue brushes his bloody temple.

Paul makes pleased, contented little sounds like a snuffling animal. He laps at the hunter's cut face, tongue darting across his cheek. Edgar shudders, growls, and pushes him away with one hand.

"Get off."

Paul reels back, eyes sprouting soft crimson, and wipes his mouth.

"C'mon, Toady..." He whispers, and damn, Edgar wishes the damn beasts didn't sound so sultry. "I could give you a little..." He chortles, tugging at Edgar's jacket, and Edgar grits his teeth at the sting.

"..._bath."_

"I'm good," Edgar hisses, pushing his endurance to the max; pulling the jacket tighter around him.

"No fun..." Paul moans. He flumps back, folding his arms like a spoilt child. "You're no fun, Toady."

"Fun enough, as you seem to stick around," monotones Edgar, limping to his first aid drawer. It judders as it opens; jutting to the side, obviously faulty. He frowns. He seriously needs to fix it.

A tennis ball whacks the window.

Paul is amusing himself.

Edgar rubs his brow in wearied frustration.

"You didn't answer my question, Toad."

"What one was that?" says Edgar, squinting at the back of an aspirin pot.

"About Alan," smirks Paul innocently, and Edgar grimaces; slams the drawer harshly.

"You know who he is," he mumbles, bracing both hands on the counter. He wants to sleep badly, but knows he can't with puff head suck monkey back there. "Stop asking stupid questions."

"You say his name in your sleep," Paul sounds almost bored, but spite catches the end of his tone. "I was getting jealous."

Edgar tightens his jaw. He shivers, once more, from the pain. He can feel blood soaking through his jacket, eating away into material and leaving a permanent stain.

Edgar doesn't bank on talons shredding through his coat.

He yells, feeling the garment drop away to the floor, along with skin and oozing red liquid. Paul slams Edgar into the counter, and he feels rough lips hungrily pressing on his flesh; drinking blood, licking at his gashes, and he hisses with the weird blend of agony and cooling relief.

"Ahhh...Paul..."

"Ohhhh...Toady," Paul's whisper blows past his ear, and Edgar just _knows _he's vamped out. "I like those little noises you're making."

Edgar barely has time to express his disgust as he's yanked from his position by the counter, and floored face down on the bed. Paul laps his blood, cleans his wounds, and Edgar tenses, fisting the sheets, but still lets him.

"You're still young, Edgar," Paul comments lowly, and shit, he sounds adult. Edgar's muscles tremble from the vampire's fingers drawing soothing circles in the grove of his back.

"How old are you, kid? Nineteen? Twenty?"

He breathes hard against his neck, and Edgar can't understand why he's suddenly mature...actually fucking serious, for once in his life, and why is he...

"I'm..." Edgar draws blood on his lower lip. "I'm _twenty one."_

"You're a babe," Paul chuckles, dancing his hands around Edgar's belt buckle. "A little kid trying to fill big man boots."

Edgar spins at this point, cracking a fist against Paul's chin. The impact doesn't even make Paul blink; his grin widens.

"Angry, Toady!" He chortles, holding Edgar down with the flats of his palms. He whoops loudly kneeling on Edgar's chewed shins to prevent him kicking him. "Always soooo..._angry!"_

"Fuck you, death breath!" Edgar spits, but his eyes are wide and hurt. Still so much like a teenager. "You couldn't understand anything! You've never once lost..."

"Ah ah ah!" Paul's jaws expand to reveal white teeth, glinting coldly as a warning. Edgar stops thrashing; glowers at him silently, but realises what he almost said.

He expects Paul to boil over, explode, go bat shit insane like he did in the Emersons those years ago. But Paul smirks, shakes his head; fangs retreat back into black gums, and his face once again appears normal.

He sits up, still straddling Edgar, who knocks his head back on the pillow, semi bemused and pissed by the awkward position.

"You know what people do when they hate each other, Toady?"

Paul's tone is light, yet unreadable.

Edgar's eyes snap open. Shit, maybe he'd not read the signals right...

"They fuck."

Paul kisses him then, all gasoline and cotton candy, and Edgar gags, pulling away from him. Paul doesn't relent, but pushes his tongue into Edgar's mouth.

Edgar gets free, and kicks Paul in the stomach.

Paul, supernaturally undeterred, bounces back, cheering and whooting. His hair flies, his fangs glitter, and he pouts his lips in faux hurt.

"Fuck..." Edgar hisses, struggling to straighten up. "I won't let myself be bitten by a suck monkey, let alone _raped_ by one!"

Paul dodges the holy water, and is gone through the window, laughing into the night.

.

.

.

Edgar wakes the next day.

Morning light burns the insides of his eyes; he groans inwardly, shifting onto his side.

Just a few moments longer...

He subconsciously runs a hand through his hair.

That is sticky with hair gel.

He grits his teeth.

_Paul._

_._

.

.

"Tooooaaadddyyyy!"

Edgar bunches the pillow over his head.

Paul whines again, like a wounded dog. He paces around the salt circle, his lip curling at the offending thing.

"You know Toad, this is really damn rude!"

Edgar flops on his back and scrutinises the ceiling with narrowed eyes. This display had been going on for the past hour. The salt circle was a new development of his, and one he had wanted to test. Well, courtesy of Paul, he now knew it worked.

"Tooooaaaadddyyy! Are you keeping Paulie out? Because bitchy Eddie keeping out friendly Paulie does not make a happy vampire..."

"Fuck this..." Edgar mutters under his breath. He kicks his feet out, and once again, attempts to sleep.

A silence descends. Edgar's brow furrows. Does this mean...?

A pebble hits the window.

Oh, for the love of hypothetical gods everywhere!

He yanks back his covers, pulls on an old pair of jeans, and kicks the door open.

Paul instantly quiets, like a naughty child finally getting attention. He silently watches, sucking his lower lip in gleeful pleasure as Edgar kicks a break in the circle.

"There!" Edgar says in barely concealed fury. "Happy now?"

Edgar spins on his heel, marching back to his trailer, and it doesn't surprise him to see Paul lounging on his bed as he enters, eyes bright with triumph and upon a closer analysis, a tight sort of despair.

"Were you trying to keep me out?" He says his words so fast that Edgar is taken aback by his gabbling, energised tone. "Did you want me to stay out? Is that it, Eddie? Hm?"

Edgar stills; placates his anger, and answers calmly.

"All vampires," he utters quietly. "To keep them all out."

Paul is on his feet now, looking a little wild. His hair is a feral mane around his pale face, and he advances, chuckling all the while.

"Weren't going to..._banish_ me were you, Toady?"

"You're fucking mental," Edgar deadpans, turning on the tap for no apparent reason than to have a feasible distraction from the manically grinning Paul. "If you're going to have a funny episode, do it outside, okay?"

He doesn't even bother to shudder as Paul's breath tickles the back of his neck.

"Can't go outside, Eddie. Too much salt."

.

.

.

Paul, it would seem, has a nasty habit of upsetting the higher hierarchy of vampires.

He crashes through Edgar's door at three in the morning, screeching from a loose vial of holy water toppling over his legs.

"Toooaaadddy!" He coughs, spitting blood. He falls to his knees, smirking through the pain. "Going to invite me in, you morose sonofabitch?"

Edgar stares down at him, arms crossed. Ever the weary parent.

"What now?"

"Hit on a master's vamp chick," He smiles at Edgar. He's missing half of his teeth, but they'll grow back in about half an hour. "She was worth it though. She was molten sex on two fine looking pins."

"Sure," Edgar is distinctly unimpressed. He allows Paul to sling his arms around his shoulders, and god, he's helping a _vampire _to his loveseat.

"Ah, baby..." Paul inhales the inside of Edgar's neck. "You smell so _good_."

"Shut up," Edgar mutters, chucking the estranged, immortal youngster on his bed. "Sit here and heal. Don't touch anything."

"It's not like I can, man," points out Paul, buzzing from his fight, and now becoming increasingly aware of his demanding libido. "Everything fucking _burns_ in here."

.

.

.

It's dark upstairs in the Emersons. The Frog Brothers have obliterated Twisted Sister, and they lay in wait for the next bloodsucking fiend to appear.

"Shit," Edgar whispers to Alan. His fingers are curled tight into the sleeve of his brother's khaki jacket. "Do you think there are anymore up here?"

Alan cocks an eyebrow, and gripping Edgar's collar, pulls him close.

"Yes," he says, smiling, and Edgar sees white spikes flash in the darkness.

Edgar wakes, gasping, bathed in sweat. He fists trembling fingers in his hair, attempting to level his breathing.

"Oh, oh, Eddie..."

Paul lounges opposite, moonlight masking him in a ghostly sheen. He fingers an old coin on his jacket, and smirks in the direction of his hunter. His eyes pulsate a gentle crimson.

"Monsters under the bed, Rambo?" He slips from his position, gliding across the room. Edgar's eyes flit to the carpet; a nervous pang rips through him. Paul's feet aren't touching the floor.

Edgar finds his tongue numb. He flinches from the sight, pressing away as Paul slips into his bed, under the sheets, and the expanding chill rolling off his flesh melts into his skin.

"You need an older brother," Paul whispers, clawed nails tearing open the man's shirt. He grins down at Edgar, who is part disgusted, part confused. "Don't you, pal?"

"I've got an older brother," he declares weakly.

"Yeah, you do," Paul agrees. He can't argue with that. "And I guess he will take care of you, won't he?"

"I don't..." Edgar doesn't want to say this, even as the words fall from his lips. "I don't want him to."

.

.

.

.

"Hey...Toady? Toad? Frog? Froggie?"

"What?" Edgar is bent over a nearly whittled stake. "Don't make me test this on you, suck monkey."

Paul chuckles.

"Look behind you. Go on."

Edgar groans; drops the wooden stake to the table with a clatter. He turns.

Alan is laid across his bed, smirking.

Edgar jolts so violently the table overturns. He legs turn to water; the urge to run, to take flight, is suddenly overwhelming.

The image melts away, and Paul is nowhere to be seen.

.

.

.

The salt circle is back again with vengeance.

Whispers hiss and whine outside.

"Fuck off," Edgar says loudly. He grinds a garlic clove beneath his fist.

_Edgar..._

It's not Paul's voice. It's Alan's.

Edgar's eyes stretch in fear. He buries his head in his palms, shuddering from hysteria and growing nausea.

"Go away..." His voice trails off. He feels a burst of emotion that breaks through his stumbling words.

"Please!"

The whispers die down, ebbing out into the blackness cloaking his courtyard.

.

.

.

There's a break in the salt circle.

Someone has obviously twigged how to break the effect.

The waft of gasoline and cotton candy fill the trailer.

_I've got a long memory._

"Paul?" Edgar calls out into the confined space with a strength he doesn't feel.

A cooling wind, like sea spray gliding off the salty break of waves, blow against his bare feet.

"Paul?" There is fear in Edgar's voice, tangible to his own ears. He shakes. He's still young, still a kid, too young to have this burden.

"Stop fucking with me, Paul!"

Invisible hands sneak under cotton sheets, ghosting over his flesh, kissing the pound of blood beneath his jugular.

_You know, what you need is an older brother._

Fingers caress the groves in his cheeks. A dark shape, indefinable to his eyes, blooms in the darkness.

"Paul..." Edgar whispers. "Paul..."

Arms close across his chest.

"He's out there," Paul whispers, his voice hushed and gleeful and insane. He sniggers, fisting his fingers around the back of Edgar's shirt. "He wants his little bro again."

Edgar twists from his grip.

"No, _please..."_

Paul screws his face up, at once thoughtful and frighteningly comedic.

"But brothers do everything together. A good brother is hard to come by. The best thing in the world. You should be _grateful_, Toady. I know _I_ was."

He smirks at Edgar then; a little sad, a little cruel, and devoid of humour. He taps Edgar's head, his teeth splitting through his gums.

He grins cheerfully, and waves at something outside the window.

"You shouldn't keep your bro out. Not cool, bud."

Edgar freezes in Paul's arms. He braces both hands on the man's shoulders, and attempts to push him away. It's like shifting a rock. Paul smiles kindly, bringing his hands around and muffling him against his chest.

"Yeeeaaahhh. You got rid of my brothers, didn't you? Yet you're so fucking scared of your own blood..."

Edgar starts; yells, fights, but is once again restrained by a caring Paul. All he sees is the grumpy kid with the red headband and lonely eyes.

Paul grins airily, ruffling Edgar's hair. His eyes are burning.

"You know what you need, _Toady? _An older brother."

Nails scrape the trailer door; laughter, low and sweet, catches on the breeze.

"Let me go, Paul. _Let me_..."

Paul chuckles. The whispers escalate, the nails scraping louder.

He flicks Edgar's nose playfully.

"Do you need an older brother, Toady? Yes or no."

Edgar swallows hard. Paul's eyes are wild, maddened, and Edgar finally understands the game.

"Y-Yeah."

Paul grins.

"What was that?"

"An o-older brother," says Edgar weakly. He's tired, weary, exhausted with fear. "I need an older brother."

"Sure you do, pal," Paul smirks, brushing his lips against Edgar's forehead. His lips quirk as the _kid_ trembles. "And do you know what older brothers do?"

Edgar shakes his head mutely.

Paul's face lights up. He taps talons against Edgar's scalp, coming to close painfully around his shoulders.

"They _protect. _What is _theirs."_

A snarl rattles along the breeze. Paul looks up, just outside the window, and smirks.


End file.
